Today

Head throbs,

Spasms pulse.

Nausea ebbs and flows in great waves,

Pain spins up to 8 and then ticks back down to 4.

My mind fights my body with its will to get up and participate, move, live.

The weight of fatigue grips my limbs like wet sand,

Every breath a labor, every step a gamble.

The world outside carries on, brightly unaware,

While I drift beneath its surface, unseen currents pulling.

Hope is not always loud.

Sometimes it whispers in the quiet:

a hand held,

a laugh shared,

the sun warming my windowpane.

There are days I curse this vessel,

days I retreat into silence and salt,

but also moments—sharp and golden—

where love slices through the fog.

I do not vanish all at once.

I am still here:

in the tremor of my voice,

in the stories I still tell,

in the soft rebellion of surviving today.